


Jefferson and Victor Go To Oz (Land Of)

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Wizard of Oz & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Castles, Friendship/Love, Gen, Journey, M/M, Multi, Partnership, Snark, Witches, Wizards, a little goofy, broken magic, cross dressing, flirtation, good and bad witches, plus ones, quest for shoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9971642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: Jefferson and Victor are stranded in the Land of Oz, and must journey forth in search of the Wizard who can help to mend the traveling hat. Featuring: Our Intrepid Travelers, Triple Threat Rumpelstiltskin as Rumpel, Dark One and Mr. Gold, Nymphaleptic Ornithologist Belle, Badass, cross-dressing David Nolan, Captain of the Rogue, Flying Monkeys, Killian Jones; and other familiar faces.





	1. The Landing

**Author's Note:**

> Let us call it a 'Romp'.

 

Travel by hat always made Victor want to throw up. The whirling and dervishing of it all… the brief sense of falling through broken components of dream, only to get sucked into a breathless whirlpool of time and place, then get summarily spat out into one’s presumed destination.

He fell out of the notably Willie Wonka-like tunnel and somersaulted several times, a tumbleweed, landing in a messy sprawl with a disgruntled, “Son of a _bitch_!” Beside him, Jefferson performed some sort of acrobatic feat, whooshing gracefully through air and landing in a Ninja’s crouch, fingertips touched to earth. A Cheshire-cat grin lingered on his oft-cherubic face. He laughed.

“Shut up.” Victor said, discourteous.

“Grouch.”

They each stood, Jefferson with a fluid retrieval of his hat, which he placed upon his head with grandeur. Victor moved creakily, brushing dust from his butt. They surveyed the land.

“Well, crap.” Jefferson said.

Nodding, Victor said, “We don’t appear to be in Storybrooke.”

Instead, they appeared to be in a town square of sorts, a well at its center. Circling the well and leading away from the huddled structures of stone and wood was a path of yellow brick. It stretched into forever, giving off a soft, luciferase sheen. In the far distance were Cathedral-like spires and Gothic towers… of emerald green. They shone in a setting sun that burned almost red, the sky afire.

No. Not Storybrooke.

“Well, fuck. Where are we?” They’d traveled so long and Victor was weary. He was ready to be home, such as it was. The hat never seemed to land them anywhere with cars or microwave ovens. He might disembowel someone for a Hot Pocket.

“I don’t know.” Jefferson mused, fingers to dimpled chin. “It’s not remotely familiar. Well… let’s not tarry. Shall we?”

With a flourish as grand as the hat’s retrieval, he whipped it from his head and whirled it to the ground. Nothing happened. He and Victor stared down at an upended top hat, waiting. He tossed it again with the same results, then looked sheepishly to Victor and announced, “Shit.”

“Are you kidding me with this?”

“It would appear; no.”

“Damn it, Jefferson.”

Jefferson shrugged. “Maybe it’s tuckered out. It might need a break between jumps.”

Victor grumbled, taking a more serious assessment of their surroundings as Jefferson became behatted once more. They seemed to be alone… surely it was too early for everyone to already be in bed. He sighed, as nothing looked terribly advanced. He didn’t hold out great hopes for indoor plumbing or WiFi.

“What’s that?” Jefferson pointed.

A bubble was headed their way, and Victor pondered the fresh hell of it. It was like a soap bubble, growing rather large. Victor could only think perhaps they’d landed in the lair of Jareth, The Goblin King. But… surely not.

The bubble sailed over them, past the well, then seemed to hover at the town’s… courthouse? Maybe the steps of a church? Or a bank? It was hard to say. But for the strangeness of the yellow brick, all was tabby stone of mottled olive-drab.

The bubble popped, and there stood a peculiar vision of shimmering gossamer. A woman in a bell-shaped gown of crinolines and dragonfly wings, who wore a tall crown atop her head and held a star-tipped wand. But… looking closer…

Jefferson said, “Holy crap.”

“I’m right there with you, brother.”

… Looking closer, the confection that stepped from the bubble wasn’t a woman at all.

It was David Nolan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_“Hello! Hello!”_

It was David’s voice, not at all falsetto, yet gentled and somehow... mothering. Victor and Jefferson shivered, rabbits staging anarchy over their graves.

“Hello?” Jefferson said, uncertainly. Equally uncertain, he removed his hat. Was he in the presence of a lady? Victor’s eyes were large, and he looked at the apparition somewhat down his nose, head tilted back. He said, “David?”

The… woman?... made big, coquettish eyes, David’s firm hand rising to her? chest. Large fingers, well manicured and tipped in pearly pink, splayed at her? décolletage. Victor and Jefferson cut their eyes at one another, light blue to dark, each feeling royally fucked-with.

“Why, that’s uncanny.” David’s gentle voice said, as he/she smiled through lips of frosted pink. “It’s _Davida_ , actually. How in the world did you guess?”

Neither traveler spoke, and it became awkward. Jefferson offered, “Um… You look like someone we know.”

Davida gave a smile-frown, and said, “Well, I’ll be.” He/she took faintly flounced steps towards them, and they fought internal battles to remain still. Meeting them, Davida held out his/her hand in a prim manner. It was meant to be kissed, and after another awkward pause, Jefferson took Davida’s hand in a gentlemanly fashion he’d practiced long ago. When Victor did nothing, only staring with his mouth slightly agape, Jefferson nudged him in the ribs.

Making a soft grunt, Victor then bowed to participate in what was, evidently, tradition. That accomplished, odd fingertips kissed, they were under the easement of Davida’s benevolent and disconcerting smile. His/her clear eyes were warm and welcoming. He/she tossed his/her head, flinging wheat-colored tresses aside.

Jefferson said, “Could you tell us…. Madam?” (he hoped for the best) “… Where are we?”

“Goodness! You don’t know?”

“We do not.”

“Why, you’re in Oz.”

Jefferson and Victor again exchanged looks, Jefferson looking puzzled and nonplussed to Victor’s look of aggrieved questioning.

Davida swished his/her skirt. He/she said, “How have you come to know not where you’ve traveled?”

Going into business mode, Jefferson said, “ _Jefferson’s_ the name, madam, and I travel by magic hat. It can be an uncertain journey at times, landing me in unforeseen places. Also, the hat seems to have stopped working.” He held his ordinary, if scruffy and Gypsy-touched top hat to Davida as evidence, and he/she took it, making a curious examination. He/she peered inside; flipped it over and tapped on the top.

“Travel by hat!” Davida mused.

“Indeed, madam.”

“I’ve always gone with bubble, myself.”

Victor sighed heavily and muttered something to the heavens. Jefferson bumped shoulders, trying to be subtle.

“Well,” Davida observed, “It seems to be out of juice. You might be able to get the Wizard to help you.”

“Wizard?” Victors brows pushed up at the center, forehead both worried and disbelieving.

“Oh, yes. The Wizard of Oz. He can do a great may things, so perhaps he can revive your hat.”

“Where is this Wizard?” Jefferson asked, but then was startled by a sound similar to chirping, chattering birds, which yet seemed spookily person-like. He and Victor looked around, goosebumping, and Davida tittered musically.

Waving his/her glittery wand about, he/she said, “Don’t be afraid, darlings! Come on out. You have guests.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Victor murmured, eyes scanning. Jefferson looked around as well, eyes a touch wild. For a moment nothing changed, then small people began emerging from every nook and cranny.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They were surrounded. The urge to throw hands up in surrender was nearly overwhelming. Shaking his/her head at their nervousness, Davida smiled.

“You’re in Munchkin Country!” he/she declared. “You scared them silly, blipping out of the sky like you did. No bubble, no broom. Most unusual.”

“ _Bubble. Broom._ ” Victor muttered.

Davida heard him, and stepped closer. He leaned back, body stiff and still, face a mask of utter disquiet.

“And who is this handsome, young man?” Davida directed her question to Jefferson while gazing at Victor, who was deeply upset by the gaze.

Still all business, clearly a fall-back, Victor thought, Jefferson said, “This is Dr. Victor Frankenstein, madam. He’s my Plus One.”

That snapped Victor out of it. Giving Jefferson a sharp look, raptor-like, he said, “ _I’m_ the doctor. You’re _my_ Plus One.”

“But _I’m_ the jumper. I lead the journey.”

“Great job so far.”

“Oh, whatever, Victor.”

“What _ever_ , Jefferson.”

“Oh, dear.” Davida giggled. He/she made a soft touch of the star-tipped wand to Victor’s nose, greatly startling him. He hid the shock, merely coming to attention, and Davida said, “ _Boop!”_

“Indeed.” Jefferson coughed into his fist, eyes like saucers.

The small people who surrounded them were many, a colorful array of all sorts of fashions and trends. They looked a little bit like a music video from the Eighties. Leaders began to emerge, and among them was a figure the travelers clearly recognized as Leroy; a bit bigger than the rest. He wore suspenders and lederhosen, and was understandably grumpy.

_“Leroy?”_ Jefferson blurted.

Leroy turned surprised, hound-dog eyes to Davida, who waved his/her wand in a shrug. “They know names.” He/she said. “They have a magic hat.” To the travelers, he/she asked, “Are you witches?”

“I’m a _doctor_.” Victor said, importantly.

Jefferson merely frowned, giving a small shake of his head. Hands on hips in a manner completely unlike David Nolan, Davida said, “Witches are common in Oz. Common as dirt. I, myself, am a witch, as you may have gleaned from my fancy wand. I am The Good Witch of the North! I stand up for goodness and heroism.” To their blank stares, he/she clarified, “You know. Doing the right thing.”

To Jefferson, Victor whispered, “Did he… she… do something to my nose?”

Jefferson continued to frown and shake his head.

Davida said, “Leroy, do you have something you’d like to say?”

Clearly unhappy, Leroy heaved a great sigh. Baleful eyes on the travelers, he said, “I…. represent the… Lollipop Guild.” Reluctantly, he held out two suckers, gleaming and twinkling with solid, rainbow colored syrup.

Jefferson stepped forward at once. “There’s a _guild_?” He happily accepted the candy. Victor, with barely disguised distaste, motioned for Jefferson to keep his share. “Cool.” Jefferson said, pocketing both.

Mary Margaret, for it was certain it was she, emerged from the crowd. She wore all pale pink…. A tutu of tulle and a delicate bodice of iridescent sequins. She wore satin ballet slippers and walked with a dancer’s exaggerated, goose-stepping grace. With her short, pixie-do, she was unaccountably cute.

More relaxed with the promise of sugar in his pocket, Jefferson elbowed Victor and said, “Awww…”

Victor was less charmed.

Davida held out his/her arm, and Mary Margaret cuddled into it. “This is Mary Margaret.” Davida smiled. “She’s my… _familiar_.”

Throaty, almost a purr, Mary Margaret said, “I represent the Lullaby League.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” Davida said, with warm fondness. He/she stared at Mary Margaret like a cat staging a coup around a bird feeder. Jefferson and Victor took a step back.

In the shelter of Davida’s gossamer arm, Mary Margaret said, “Welcome to Munchkin Country.” She held her hand out, arm sweeping in a dancer’s gesture… or maybe like Vanna White.

“Isn’t she sweet?” Davida murmured, and proceeded to kiss Mary Margaret in a way that made everyone suddenly uncomfortable. For a moment, Victor and Jefferson merely stood, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Then, as did the rest of the gathering, they stared down at their shuffling feet. They wondered, with inappropriate curiosity, what might be going on under Davida’s skirt. The kiss went on for too long.

Eventually, Jefferson coughed and cleared his throat. Dreamy-eyed, Davida looked up. His/her frosty pink lipstick was smeared.

“Um…. “ Jefferson said, “Seeing as you are a _witch_ , madam…”

“A _good_ witch.”

“Yes, indeed. Perhaps _you_ could be of assistance with my hat?”

“Oh, no.” Davida said. “I’m afraid not. Runny noses, broken hearts, lack of rain…. Those are the sorts of things I can help with. Sort of kitchen and agricultural witchery, if you will. Plus, the doing of the right thing. I believe the Wizard is your most likely resource.”

Returning to his earlier question, Jefferson asked, “And how do we find him?”

Answering for Davida and equally dreamy-eyed, Mary Margaret said, “Well, that’s easy, silly. Just follow the yellow brick road.”


	2. Friends Along the Way

“That was fucking weird.” Victor complained.

They’d left the town square with a small flurry of fanfare and well-wishes, some of them literal; sparkling coins tossed in the well as an offering to a benevolent god or goddess. Davida, like royalty, waved his/her glittery wand in a slow salute as they set out.

Not in disagreement, Jefferson said, “There’s obviously some sort of parallel life thing going on here.”

“You think?”

“I feel like the whole Munchkin angle would piss off the dwarfs.”

Victor’s face had never really stopped being in a worried brow-raise of disbelief. He turned the look on Jefferson. “This is your concern?”

“Well, it’s not my _only_ concern.”

They walked in silence for a time. Wrapped up in an aura of freaked-out-ness and in thoughts of getting back home, they failed to notice the beauty of Munchkin Country. It was, truly, _country_. On either side of the road was a sprawling, hilly blanket of agricultural land, laid out in patchwork squares and rectangles of verdant green, a soft, wheat-gold, in the shade of Davida’s hair, and mustard yellow. Pastures and plots were separated by low walls of stacked stone, and the land was dotted with wooly sheep, some in unusual, pastel colors.

It was very open, trees standing together in clusters within vast pasture-land, or lining the hilly distance like soldiers, far off mountains marking Munchkin Country as a fertile valley. The air was soft and fresh, scented with earth and green, with delicate fruit blossoms and a not unpleasant, hay-touched scent of animal dung.

All of this went unnoticed until the land changed, becoming abruptly forested. The sun was still up, but the light dimmed. The air grew colder. Trees that looked like ancient sentries, gnarled and wicked and black, hugged the road. The travelers tuned into their surroundings.

“This place gives me the creeps.” Victor said.

“Anything without an electric current or a florescent hum gives you the creeps.”

“You got that right, brother.”

The trees seemed to lean in a little, crowding the road. Even in the lengthening shadows, the yellow brick contrived to give off a faint glow.

Voice low, Jefferson muttered, “I think a tree just… turned to look at me over its shoulder.”

“Right?”

Jefferson, deeply uncomfortable, edged closer to Victor. Then a little flurry of mouse-brown and cleaning rag buff tumbled into the path, making the travelers cry out and hop back. The blurred jumble resolved into a little man, equally startled, who swallowed his own cry and cowered, shielding his head. Recovering, Jefferson said, “Hey… it’s… it’s _Gold_.”

“Will this never end?” Victor demanded. (But of whom?)

“Don’t hurt me!” the frightened man of rag-tag motley almost whimpered, head still ducked, hands white-knuckling a walking staff which was bigger than he.

“Aw. Hey, now.” Jefferson said. He approached cautiously, and placed a reassuring hand on Gold’s shoulder. “It’s okay. What’s the matter, little fellow?”

“Seriously?” Victor asked.

Peeping up with dark and wounded eyes, Gold said, “You… you aren’t going to beat me?”

“It remains to be seen.” Victor intoned, widening his stance.

“Ignore him. He’s just… asinine. No, we’re not going to _beat_ you. Why would you think so?”

Sadly, the little man said, “Well. People generally do.”

“Well, that’s just _awful_.” Jefferson was affronted.

Glomming onto a sympathetic soul, clearly a rarity, Gold met Jefferson’s eyes and said, “It _is_ awful. Just now, the trees slapped me around and then threw me out onto the road. They were hoping you were hoodlums and marauders.”

Looking at Victor, pointing toward the trees, Jefferson hissed, “I _knew_ it!” Spooked, Victor looked to the trees with his worried and distrusting brow.

“What’s more,” Gold whispered, “a lot of them are loyal to _her_.”

“To whom?” Jefferson whispered back.

“To Regina. The Wicked Witch of the West.”

It cracked Victor up. He couldn’t help it. His brow finally thawed from its furrow as he laughed, smile big. Gold cringed, and Victor held up his hand – stop – in apology. “I’m just having some interesting visuals.” He said.

Distrust imprinted on every cell of his being, Gold asked, “Who _are_ you two?”

Jefferson held out his hand. “Jefferson’s the name. We’re travelers, jumpers; new to Oz. This is Dr. Victor Frankenstein.” With an evil leer to Victor, he added, “He’s my Plus One.”

Victor rolled his eyes, then startled as a tree leaned near. He held both hands up in a martial arts pose.

“And who are you?” Jefferson asked.

Still sad, the little man said, “No one calls me anything, really. But my name is Rumpelstiltskin.”

Jefferson beamed, unaccountably pleased that the people they met were more or less conforming to the people of home. “Well, then. Rumpelstiltskin it is. Victor and I are off to see The Wizard. Want to come with?”

“ _Wizard_?” Rumpelstiltskin shuddered. He looked appalled. “Oh, that sounds _terrible_.”

“Didn’t Davida say something about ‘great and terrible’?” Victor asked. “And maybe ‘dark’?”

“Thank you, Victor. That was helpful. Listen, Rumpel… Can I call you Rumpel?”

“I’d prefer it Orville. Or Eugene.”

“Alright, Rumpel. I don’t think you have anything to fear. We’re going to see if he can help us repair our magic hat.”

Rumpel quirked a brow, curiosity seeming to overcome overblown fear. He stood marginally more strait. “Indeed?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve never heard of the Wizard dealing in hats. He’s more the sort to hand out hearts and brains and whatnot. Besides which, they say he has piles and piles of gold.”

Alarming little Rumpel, Jefferson bounced on the balls of his feet. “ _Ooh_! _Ooh_! I want brains!”

“Gold?” Victor perked up.

Nodding vigorously, Rumpel said, “Piles and piles.”

“Piles and piles?”

“Yes.” Jefferson looked at Victor. “The man said ‘piles and piles’. You megalomaniac. But our goal is home. Well… and maybe some brains.”

“Hearts interest me as well.” Victor mused.

Hesitant, looking from one to the other, Rumpel asked, “Do you think The Wizard might give me a little courage?” Sheepish, he added, “I’m a coward, you see.” A tree menaced, causing Rumpel to shy back. Its twiggy end balled up and gave him two-for-flinching. “ _Ow_.”

“Well sure!” Jefferson put his arm around Rumpel, steering him from the bullying tree. “I don’t see why not. What’s a little courage to a man with a warehouse of hearts, brains and gold? He’s probably got _silos_ of courage. You should come with us.”

“He’s not a puppy, Jefferson. You shouldn’t go messing with the lives of people living here.”

Pouting, Jefferson said, “But… _Look_ , Victor.” Arm around Rumpel, Jefferson presented him. He was the runt of the litter, skinny and showing pooled eyes, affixed with permanent worry. He was an unhappy, little specimen. But oddly cute.

With a sigh, Victor said, “Oh, alright.”

Jefferson grinned cheerfully at Rumpel, and the little man seemed to not know how to arrange his face. It resolved into an uncertain smile, tucked within a cringe. “Thank you.” He said, his voice the quiet rasp of a hungry, neglected kitten.

 

 

Under Rumpel’s guidance, they came to a part of the forest which wasn’t in such firm alliance with the Wicked Witch of the West. “It’s a bipartisan forest.” Rumpel explained. A feeling of uncertainty and generalized creepiness remained, becoming suppressed fear with the true onset of night. But the trees weren’t such jerks as previously met.

They made a little fire, and Jefferson shared his traveling provisions; jerky, granola, water from a canvas covered canister, tasting of cold metal in a way that was curiously pleasing. In a fit of sympathetic generosity, he gave one of his suckers to Rumpel.

“Gosh, thanks! This must have come from the Guild!” Rumpel popped the hyperbolic candy into his mouth, and his eyes mellowed out as if he sucked on a hookah.

As the night grew colder and the forest cooked up a low murmur of trills and ‘whip-poor-wills’, Jefferson cuddled closer to Victor. Almost a reflex, on autopilot, Victor’s arm circled around his shoulders. Hunkered into his jumble of rags, Rumpel cast a curious and confused eye upon them.

“Oh,” Jefferson said, noticing. “We’re… uh…”

Victor frowned and made an ushering forward motion of his hand. Follow the storyline to its conclusion, the hand said. He muttered, “You know.”

Rumpel broke into a hectic, little blush and looked down, watching the fire flames. The sort of connection the travelers shared seemed to be outside of his experience. He gave a nod to show he understood, but for awhile he couldn’t meet their eyes.

Soon enough, huddling for warmth and sucking on soporific candy led them all into a restless sleep. Dreams were blanketed in sharp scents of resinous pine, of fern on oak and lichen on fallen branches. The scent of earth and charred firewood lulled them; rising smoke and little fits of sparks when a log settled. There was the occasional, bitter note of singed moth, small cries of _damn it! ow!_ and, _not again_! curling into their sleeping insides.

All were visited by dreams that were blinding in their brilliance. Light seeped out of their closed eyes and glowed about their faces… more moths, tiny and white, hovered about their sleeping forms. There were vast fields of poppies under a high sun, dust rising like a fog over the feverish glow of the yellow brick road. There was a castle…. A city? A Vatican? All of a jeweled sort of stone, both Far East and yet Gothic in appearance. The stone had illusory qualities, like opals and abalone, but was of a shimmery, emerald green. The sun bounced from its surface, and none could tell if they ever got any closer, or if it continued to recede in the glare.

Just before waking, each man shuddered to see a gritty smear of black streak across the sky. A comet in negative, a buzzing housefly on a white, marble windowsill. A crack and break on the surface of a tomb; cold, death-scented air whooshing out from within, polluting sun-warmed land.

 

 

 

They were roused to wakefulness by an entirely unwelcome sound of rollicking, wild chatter. It was the sound of entering a zoo. And kind of the smell. Hoots and roars, yips and cat-calls; a frantic urgency of bouncing, hollering, howling madness.

Rumpel wasted no time in becoming completely hidden in his motley. He was camouflaged as a lifeless mound of dun colored, nondescript rags. Jefferson and Victor were stumblingly on their feet, looking about wildly. The noise came from the tree tops, branches everywhere in wild undulation. The zoo scent overwhelmed the scent of the cold fire-pit; ash and scorched, burnt wood.

“What in _the_ fuck?” Victor whispered.

Shaking his head, Jefferson scrambled to the Rumpel heap and shook it. “ _What the hell is this_?” he shouted, over the din.

A muffled reply sounded, and – lacking gentleness – Jefferson shook the heap again, trying to form it into a man. Eventually a head emerged, framed in a messy spill of chestnut hair. “It’s the Witch’s Rogue Guard!” the face rasped, and then dove back into the heap.

Jefferson let Rumpel burrow, and rejoined Victor. Their eyes trained to the tree tops, seeing only hints of many, shadowy somethings. It was too noisy for speech. Even so, Victor hollered, “In all your trail mix and army surplus, you couldn’t pack a gun? Or a grenade?”

“It’s only me, here? I’m responsible for _everything_?”

The noise abruptly stopped, a shocking hush settling over the forest. A low moan sounded from the pitiful rag-heap. Striking a biblical sort of drama, a winged man dropped from the tree-obscured sky. He flashed a dazzling smile.

“Greetings, dear people.” He said. He stood with a jaunty air, a vision of leather and fur, a darkness of enormous bat wings unfurled behind. All in all, he was both devilish _and_ handsome.

“Holy crap.” Victor said, a little flat.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Victor, Jefferson breathed, “It’s Killian Jones!”

Scoundrel’s smile amping up a notch, Killian’s crotch seemed to make a proud statement of sorts as he said, “Ah. You’ve heard of me, mate.”

Victor and Jefferson, rather stunned by bat-winged Killian; who was, indeed, stunning; maintained non-committal expressions. Killian was bare chested, and straps of leather criss-crossed his torso and harnessed over his shoulders. The travelers puzzled as to whether the straps harnessed his wings; perhaps a feat mechanical rather than biological. But what caused them to work?

“My crew picked up on your presence in the forest. We’re here to investigate.”

“Your crew?” Victor asked.

“Aye. I’m the Captain of the Rogue Flying Monkeys. We stand in opposition to The Wicked Witch of the West. We’re also a spot-on neighborhood watch.” Looking up, Killian called, “Boys?”

Creatures descended. They dropped down like ninjas, as if trailing invisible rope, landing neatly with a tidy folding of wings; smaller versions of Killian’s. All were uniformly smallish, yet person sized. Their faces were both monkey-like, and yet humanish… rather than evoking human-like qualities of simians, they seemed to point to the simian qualities of humans. They were dark-furred and had long, prehensile tails. Some remained in the trees, hanging by their tails.

The crew wore uniforms of smart jackets, fitted and lavish with buttons, straps and notions of leather, tassels and such. Many wore swashbuckling hats, highly ornamental with a frothing of feathers. Disconcertingly, none wore pants.

As Victor and Jefferson took it all in, wide-eyed, Killian said, “I can see you’re new in these parts, so allow me to explain.” There was a brief flash of demonic charm, delivered via his smile. “When The Wicked Witch gets angry… or bored, or horny, yet lacking an outlet… she’s developed a quirk of turning members of her guard into flying monkeys. This is the unfortunate and sometimes catastrophic shit that has befallen all of us.” His arm swept to include his crew, also demonstrating a taut delight of curving bicep and flexing shoulder. Well formed pectoral muscles shifted within their frame of leather harness. Soft and wolfish, as predatory as his white teeth, dark hair lay in swirling patterns over Killian’s chest and torso. It formed a sort of dark line down his center, leading to his shadowy navel and insinuating its way into a pair of low-slung leather trousers that hugged to narrow hips. Forming zenith or bulls-eye was a satisfying bulge at his crotch.

He was magnificent, and in a small crisis of swoon, Jefferson leaned against Victor for support.

“But… you’re not a monkey.” He managed.

Both of Killian’s arms then moved to encompass all of himself; his face, his body, his wings… his very bearing. “Aye. Indeed not. This much handsomeness can’t be suppressed, mate. Regina was only able to do the wings. The rest wouldn’t take.”

Jefferson’s lean became heavier, and Victor said, “Knock it off, you jackass.” To Killian, he said, “So… that harness isn’t strapping on the wings? They’re part of you?”

“Aye. They’re as much me as me arms and legs.” To Jefferson, he curled a smile. “And other parts. They’re more me than this bloody hook.” He held up his left arm which was, as in Storybrooke, capped in a steel hook. “Part of Regina’s wrath when she realized her spell wouldn’t work on me.”

“So… what do the straps do?” Jefferson asked.

Killian’s eyes mellowed seductively at Jefferson. It seemed he’d taken an instant liking. Stroking the backs of his fingers over the leather, he murmured, “Oh… I just like them.”

“….. Oh……” Jefferson sighed.

Victor, brows drawn down, gave Jefferson a look and a mild shove. To Killian, he said, “Forgive him. He’s not all that bright.”

“I’m going to see a man about a brain.” Jefferson added.

“Aye?” Killian smiled. “Hmmm.” Stepping forward, a surprise to both Jefferson and Victor, he touched his fingertips to Jefferson’s face. Fingers cradled beneath his chin, thumb stroked its dimple. “Me, I’ve always enjoyed a fellow whose both pretty and little ditsy.”

Irritated, Victor said, “Yeah? Well, this is your man, then.”

Killian gave Jefferson a sly wink, and Jefferson demurred. He blushed and moved closer to Victor, confused and a little embarrassed.

“And what have we here?” Killian asked, striding to the rag heap. Here and there winged monkey people relaxed and began to groom one another, making a low chatter.

“That’s Rumpel.” Jefferson volunteered. “He was given a start by your crew.”

“Aye?” Killian flipped cloth about with his hook until he reached arms, covering a head. “Come out, mate. I don’t bite.” With a rakehell glance to Jefferson, he added, “Unless you ask nicely.”

Jefferson blushed again, and Victor looked as though his intelligence had been insulted. “You’re unbelievable.” He said to Jefferson.

Rumpel made a slow, shaky start of it. He peeped a dark, puppy eye from his nest. Seeing the dark angel that hovered over, a menace of wicked charm, he tucked back in. Eventually, coaxed by Killian, he was more or less upright.

“Good gods, Rabbit. I never met a man so fearful as you.”

“It’s Rumpel, actually.”

“I’m calling you ‘Rabbit’, mate.”

With a soft sigh, Rumpel said, “Well. I suppose I prefer it to Orville. Or Eugene.”

“Indeed.” Surveying the group, Killian tugged a leather pouch from his hip. Smiling, he said, “Why don’t we all have a bite and a smoke, and you can tell me about this quest for brains.”

 

 


	3. Attack

The “bite” turned out to be something that looked like jerky, smelled like humus soil, and was – in actual fact – mushrooms. The “smoke” was a dried mass of leaf and bud, both deeply green and eggplant purple. Its scent was rich, like chocolate, and delicate, like violets and sweet William. Killian rolled the leaves up in small papers; it was interesting to watch his hand and hook maneuver; and passed them around. Monkey men relaxing and smoking… it had to be seen.

After establishing names and that Victor was Jefferson’s Plus One, the fire was stirred to life. Rumpel sniffed suspiciously at both cigarette and palm sized fungus. He took a rabbit-like nibble at the edge of a mushroom, and made a happy, yummy, little sound.

“Good, mate?”

Nodding, Rumpel rasped, “Tastes like chicken.”

The others tucked in, and all around was the rustling of monkey men doing monkey men things. Some chewed on the mushrooms; the texture was a little rubbery. Some fished grubs from the soft undersides of fallen branches, redolent of moss and decay, and satisfied a tickling need for protein. One of them offered a selection of startled, squirming grubs to Victor, presented on an outstretched, dark, leathery finger. Victor declined, politely.

Chewing, Killian said, “ So, Jeff… Are your brains really so muddled that you’re off to see the Great and Terrible Wizard because of them?”

“Yes.” Victor answered for Jefferson.

Jefferson said, “Well, maybe. But really we’re going to see the Wizard to get my hat repaired. It’s our method of travel, see. But its mojo just fizzled.”

“Can I see it?” Killian asked, fetching arm outstretched. Jefferson handed it over, and after a brief investigation, Killian placed the top hat upon his own, crow-feather head. The picture of dark devilry was complete. “I quite like it.” he said; but an icy look had slipped into Victor’s pale eyes. Killian removed the hat and handed it back. “And what about you, Rabbit?”

“Me?” Rumpel shrank back a little.

“Aye. What do you want from the Wizard?”

“Oh…” Rumpel twisted his staff into the leaf litter. “Courage. If he’ll part with it.” Even more quiet, he added, “And perhaps a pile of gold.”

“Aye, mate. Understood. I wonder… Do you think he might turn my crew back into men? And… maybe give me back my hand?”

Victor and Jefferson shrugged. Jefferson said, “We could hardly say. We’re really only following Davida’s guidance.”

Victor smiled at the mention of Davida, and Killian stroked his stubbled chin with an overly fond hand. “Ah, Davida. There’s a fine lass. So, you’ve met our singular, good witch.”

“There’s a good one?” Rumpel asked.

“Aye. In the North. Munchkin Country.”

“The _singular_ good witch?” Victor asked. How many witches have you got?”

Ticking off, hook to the fingers of his intact hand, Killian said, “The worst around here is Regina. She once had a sister, Zelena, wicked – but rather stupid – in the East. Some years back there was a robust, milk-maid sort of farm girl who traveled by cyclone… she accidentally dropped a house on Zelena, and Regina has been a right bitch ever since. Maleficent is the witch whose taken over the East, distant relation, I believe. The answer’s in the name.

“In the South, rotten, but not overly troublesome, we have Regina’s mother, Cora. Once upon a time, she was far worse than Regina. But she’s mellowed out. The South will do that to a body… it’s all swamp and people looking at cypress knees and thinking about sex…. People drinking hard liquor on their porches, basking in heat. Cora spouts off about all who kneel and tremble before her, but most just ignore her. She regularly eats raisins she’s soaked in gin… for her arthritis.

“And in the North, of course, we have the lovely Davida.”

“Who stands up for Goodness and Heroism.” Jefferson said.

“Aye, mate. That she does. So, do you reckon we could travel with you? Me and my crew. We could shorten your journey by a great deal, get you off the yellow brick road for a spell. Take our chances with the Wizard.”

Jefferson squirmed a bit under Victor’s judging stare, but said, “Yeah. I don’t see why not.” He held his hand out to Killian, and they shook on it.

 

 

 

Killian carried Rumpel, as he was too disturbed by the flying monkeys to allow for their touch. Even with Killian, Rumpel folded into himself in a wriggling uncertainty of distrust, and a newly realized fear of heights. Initial protests of, “No-no-no-no-no!” became horrified whimpers of, “ _Don’t drop me_!”

“I’ve got you, Rabbit. Not to fret.”

“There should be a safety harness! Protective landing gear! An emergency, back-up broom!”

“I’ve _got_ you, mate. Settle down.”

This left Jefferson and Victor in the charge of flying monkeys. Neither was overly thrilled about it, but Victor murmured to Jefferson, before lift-off, that a monkey was preferable to ‘Captain Leather Daddy’.

Jefferson looked put-upon. “Come on, Victor. I was just a little dazzled. Killian seems kind of _…. extra_ over here, don’t you think. Larger than life. And, I mean, _wings_. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes, it does. I think it means you’re more gay than I am.” Victor declared.

“Really.”

“Absolutely. On a scale of one-to-ten, I’m going to say you’re gay to the tune of at least seven or eight. I’m more of a two or a three… not nearly so likely to be distracted by a cocky, model wanna-be masquerading as Freddie Mercury.”

Getting himself into launch position with his assigned monkey, Jefferson gave Victor a dry look. “Sure.” He said. “And I’ll be sure to remind you of that next time you’re pounding me into the mattress.”

The monkey revved up. He and Jefferson took a running leap, and were jauntily airborne, Jefferson waving farewell with his hat. It left Victor with a sober expression and parted lips…. The image planted in his head was too real, and it seeped into his blood. His blood grew hot, disrupting a cool, scientific exterior. His monkey made a rude grunt, prompting him to get it in gear. The launch sequence was initiated. Victor silently wished for aviation goggles… and maybe a dashing scarf.

 

 

 

Oz was lovely from above. There was only one area that seemed industrialized; an uneven outline of buildings and streets, laid out on a grid, dark smoke drifting from some of the taller buildings. Killian shouted that it was Winkie territory, a place famous for tin smithery and rumors of Tik Toks.

Aside from the small cluster of Winkie industry, all was natural and aricultural beauty. The rolling farmland and vales, the chilly, blue-periwinkle mountains bordering the North, some capped in snow; the serpent-like rivers, tributaries and thick stands of cypress to the South. Standing water shone like obsidian.

From above, the dark forests that were in league with The Witch showed only swaying grace, branches reaching to sky. In the far distance was the gleaming grandeur that lay at the end of the yellow brick road… the City of Oz, its own kingdom, secured behind tall, bejeweled walls.

Long, organized rectangles of red, some patches multicolored, led up to the walls of the city. Killian shouted that they were fields of poppies… evidently opium dens were a popular feature of the Emerald City.

In mid-flight, the party came under attack.

 

 

 

It wasn’t obvious at first. Victor thought, _that’s odd_. A bee, at this height. He hadn’t thought they’d traverse his current level of stratosphere, far from the flowers they loved to seduce and plunder.

Then there was another, and then another. Not at all like a little honeybee with its wriggling, fuzzy butt, they were a shade larger than bumblebees, and were all black. They had black, fuzzy parts, absorbing the light that suffused the sky of pale blue and fresh, butter-yellow. They had shiny black parts that gleamed and shimmered, like oiled armor. Rather than transparent, white-veined wings that caught and bounced light; their wings were like the black netting on a lady’s funeral veil. Victor began to hear them, even over the rush of wind in his ears. They made a loud, monotone yet wavering drone, for they were many.

“Something’s wrong!” he shouted to Killian. He kept a concerned eye on Jefferson, who held his hat low to his head, chin ducked against the wind.

“Aye! It’s the Witch!”

Killian made a sharp, semi-downward veer into air, and Victor briefly heard the swallowed shriek that must have been Rumpel. He couldn’t blame the little guy. His monkey followed Killian’s lead, a deep dive and swerve, and he closed his eyes against the mad, topsy-turvy tilting of the earth, below. He kept his eyes closed, unnerved both by the speed and the plunge-climb of their movement, as well as by the loud drone. It was a wall of sound in close pursuit, and each time the crew dipped or plunged, there was a warp in the sound that told him the bees were doing the same.

Now and again he slitted his eyes open, looking to see that Jefferson was airborne and unmolested by bees. On one such peek, he saw them. He couldn’t look away. The bees were a united front, a Beelzebub-inspired cloud of black, a cyclone or waterspout that traveled in a horizontal fashion across the sky, blocking out anything wholesome or good.

The rush was loud.

Victor felt his monkey, the whole crew, come up short. It was like slamming into an invisible, cushioned wall. Absurdly, his mind leapt directly to Jefferson, imagining years of confusion, Jefferson head-banging a padded wall, arms bound and unable to investigate the scar at his neck and ascertain that his head was, indeed, affixed to his body.

… The bees, the cause of their sudden stop… The party hovered in air, and the beating of wings made them bob up and down, as if they tread water. Victor wondered that he’d never before realized how like water was air; how like the ocean was the sky.

Before them, having made a zippy circle, the bees formed a massive woman. She was dragon-sized, Godzilla-sized; a woman of squirming black, made of bees. She was shapely, and her silhouetted form showed a narrow, mermaid-tail skirt and a kicky fascinator hat, tiny on her elaborate up-do.

“ _Oh, fabulous_!” Killian shouted, not a little put out.

The bee woman blocked out the sky, and – creepy in the ball shrinking extreme – laughter that Victor recognized as Regina’s rang out, seeming to be everywhere.  _Inside_ him, even. In his head, vibrating in his limbs. “Holy crap.” He muttered. The laughter seemed to issue from the too-loud, shifting buzz and drone of the bee woman… but, surely that couldn’t be.

The bee woman lifted an arm, perhaps holding a wand, and Killian began to shift his crew into an upward climb that did horrible things to Victor’s inner ear. His brain felt as if, grape-like, it might pop. He worried for Jefferson’s brain. The climb lurched sickeningly into a plunge, and then – a rogue blip in his peripheral vision – he noticed a bubble.

Like a bullied child who then sees the bulky shape of father or big brother, cresting a hill, coming into sight, into reality, Victor thought… _oh, thank the gods._

Killian saw the bubble, too. To his crew, he yelled, “ _Down! Down_!” He directed them in a sharp, land-flinging, backwards curve, away from the bees and towards the earth. The bee woman made an angry sound, and Victor was astounded that he could only think of the Stay Puft Marshmallow man from Ghostbusters. She broke apart, becoming a cloud, then reformed into the cyclone shape. Aerodynamic, the winnowed, pointed end aimed for the crew.

They came to a running, stumbling, almost crash landing. Victor barely managed to acknowledge that they were in a field, or pasture. He was on sparse grass, kicking up dust. As his monkey released him, he looked wildly about for Jefferson. Everything was a confusion of dark, monkey fur and dark bees, whirlwinds and bee-dust devils everywhere. Jefferson, pinwheeling madly, balance askew, came crashing into him and they stumbled backwards for several feet. They fell over Rumpel, who’d gone into den-mode.

“Jesus H.” Jefferson huffed from their general sprawl.

“I’m not sure the ground was the best option!” Victor yelled.

Before strategy could be discussed, the bubble descended and turned into Davida. He/she, frothy and gossamer as ever, gave a little, over-the-shoulder smile and wiggle of pearly fingertips to the travelers. Then he/she waved his/her wand all about. He/she was a cyclone unto him/herself. Bees briefly popped into nothingness, and a blessed silence came shockingly into being.

Just as quickly, the silence was replaced by a cacophony of growling, snarling, snapping, barking, yipping and howling. The bees had reappeared as wolves, all of them shadows of black. They were larger than one might have thought of a wolf. Their hackles stood, their shoulders rolled. Their lips curled back, wrinkling snouts and making their eyes appear to be filled with lunacy. They drooled thick ropes of saliva, anticipating a kill and feeding. The ropes flung hither and yon as they lunged and snapped at monkeys, who lunged and parried back, menacing with sturdy, little daggers and sickle-shaped short swords.

The air grew thick with the scents of heated, damp fur and ammonia laced fear. The saliva flung by the wolves was almost a scent of spilled blood. It seemed wrong that the sun glared, a bright flash in the sky, oblivious to the dark masses crawling upon the earth.

Victor and Jefferson crouched near the Rumpel heap, instinctively protecting it; protecting one another and themselves. Jefferson said, “I don’t think wolves are the better option to bees.”

“Hey, let’s discuss it!”

They watched, amazed and increasingly more relieved, as Davida laid waste. He/she lifted his/her skirts, revealing hunting or combat boots beneath. He/she hitched his/her wand into a sash of an iridescent, lavender hue at his/her waist, and marched into the fray. Davida fought side by side with Killian, and eventually back to back.

Blood was spilled. Victor’s gorge rose, and he swallowed it back down in a nauseating gulp. Davida fought with a longsword, presumably magicked from somewhere. It was a fancy thing, bejeweled and carved at the hilt. As befits a lady. But the blade was heavy, its edge was like a razor and its point was deadly. Like a knight with a broadsword, Davida hacked his/her way, marring his/her dress with matted, black fur and hot, raw blood. With gristle and gore, gobbets of an unspeakable nature.

Killian fought two-handed, so to speak. A dagger in his right hand, his hook at deadly play at the end of his left arm. He moved in a semi-crouch, strong arms making a steady slash and stab. The dagger punched with a sickly thud; the hook ripped into flesh and rendered it inside-out, useless. All around, monkeys practiced martial arts and made dagger wounds of their own. Some whipped wolves upside the head with long, prehensile tails, or used tails to hold a rioting wolf while a brother-monkey closed in for the kill.

It seemed like forever to Victor, but the entire battle was less than ten minutes. Eventually, there was only Killian and Davida, back to back in a mass of slick-bloodied fur and open, red maws, showing long teeth. The monkeys hopped and bounced over the field of gory death. In the pale sky, black crows were specks in the distance, alerted to the carrion of wolves born of magic; not their cousins.

Poking at the Rumpel heap, Jefferson said, “Are you alright in there? I think it’s over.”

Rumpelstiltskin peeped out, was imprinted with nightmarish carnage, moaned sickly and went back into his warren.

“Don’t blame you a bit.” Victor said.

Looking at the fighters, the warriors, one in black leather and the other a shimmering rainbow of crinolines, fixing his/her hair, Jefferson said, “Damn it. I feel like a Marshmallow Peep.”

“Preach, brother.”

Killian and Davida picked their way over. As they leveled to the travelers, bloodied Killian wrapped his arm around Davida’s shoulders, grinning. He touched his hook to Davida’s shimmery chest, and said, “How about my darling girl?”

“I’ll say!” Jefferson gushed. “You kicked ass!”

Davida, clearly pleased, blushed demurely. He/she, voice in its weird gentling, said, “Oh, thank you, dearest.”

“Truly,” Killian said. “You saved the day, mate. We were in trouble.”

Tossing his/her hair, Davida said, “It’s funny. There I was, eating Guild-made bonbons and thinking to myself; Ozma, please give me the strength to get this house picked up and press the tutus before Mary Margaret gets back from the market. Then I got a tingle of your witch-difficulties, and all the sudden I was filled with energy. I just bubbled up and whisked away! And speaking of… I’d better get back. Mary Margaret will be _pissed_ if I don’t get that stuff done.”

“She’s a harsh mistress, eh, mate.”

With a shrug and a rather sweet smile from pretty lips, Davida said, “She’s firm, but fair.”

“Aye.” Killian said, a touch growly.

Looking at Victor and Jefferson, Davida said, “It’ll take Regina some time to recover from dishing up all that magic. You should get a move on… get out of her territory while she’s in power down mode.”

Killian nodded, and everyone, but for Rumpel, looked skyward and waved fondly as the Davida bubble sailed away.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Wizard

The Emerald City seemed always so close…. Just over the next soft fold of hill, directly after a crimson quilt-work of poppy field. It was in sight, its dazzle such that many of the monkeys, familiar with its intensity of green, had donned greenish, rounded sunglasses to help their eyes adjust. They were cool monkeys and they knew it, striking casual, cavalier poses.

Yet it seemed, frustratingly, they came no closer to the city. Jefferson had felt certain they’d be at the gates by nightfall, but instead, at the dying of the day, they’d set up camp at the border of a poppy field. They were near a wall of stacked and ancient stone, long grown over with moss and fern.

The monkeys felled a few rabbits, and -with Killian – set about cleaning them for dinner. In an unfortunate moment, Jefferson saw Killian make a few specific cuts in the fur of a long rabbit. While a monkey held the deceased creature, Killian whipped off its furry hide in a single, horrifying rip. He said, “Sorry, Rabbit.” To Rumpel, who was nearby. Only the promise of supper had made him visible. Rumpel, however, used to the skinning of small game and the wringing of the odd chicken neck, was okay with the horrorshow of food preparation.

Jefferson went weak in the knees. He wobbled away, sitting down beside Victor, and muttered, “I swear to _Lucifer_ … that was like something out of ‘Hellraiser’.”

Victor put his arm about Jefferson’s shoulders, and Jefferson asked, “Is that what surgery’s like?”

“Little bit. Usually less furry.”

Jefferson shuddered. As the sky deepened and fireflies began to twinkle on and off, the scent of cooking rabbit, fat liquefying to grease and sizzling in the fire, both soothed and enticed. Soon Rumpel was happily pulling meat from bone and licking his fingers, and Killian passed around the chocolate-flower, very mellowing cigarettes. He said they had digestive properties. Monkeys and men found places to bed down, most sleeping back to back, conserving heat as the temperature dropped.

Victor spooned to Jefferson, and under the shroud of darkness, he became amorous. He pressed his hips to Jefferson’s nicely rounded butt, making known the urgent presence of his troublesome erection, overheated and confined to his trousers. He placed soft kisses against Jefferson’s neck.

“Not now.” Jefferson whispered.

“I don’t think I can wait much longer.” Victor whispered back. “It’s been forever.”

“It was a few days ago, before we jumped.”

“What – Are you keeping a daytimer? And besides… There was all that talk of pounding and mattresses.”

Jefferson snorted. Twisting at the waist, he turned and opened his mouth to Victor’s kiss, struggling to keep quiet. In only moments, he was panting… Victor’s tongue was soft, a tease against his, waking nerve endings and flooding his body with want. He felt flushed at face and chest; as troubled as Victor at groin.

Pulling back, he said, “Well… we haven’t got a mattress. And I can’t see going at it in the middle of a rogue army. Of _monkeys_. And if Rumpel catches wind, he’ll be scarred for life.”

“The problem,” Victor said, “is that I don’t care about any of that.”

“And if Killian takes an interest, he’s likely to join in.”

Victor frowned. “You wretch.”

Smiling in darkness, a bit dazzled by the massing of stars, above, Jefferson murmured, “Self-important fuckhead.”

“Pompous halfwit.”

“Elitist, psychotic dick.”

“ _Bitch_.” Victor growled the word, biting against Jefferson’s neck, and it triggered both in heady ways. Hips rocked, cock grinding to bum. Huffing, exerting more will power than he was aware of possessing, Jefferson said, “It’s going to have to wait, Victor.”

Victor made a frustrated sound, forehead pressed between Jefferson’s shoulder blades. “When we get home, there’s going to be a reckoning.”

“Oh, really?” Jefferson snorted a soft laugh. “Will it last for more than a minute and a half?”

“No.”

Curling back against Victor, Jefferson said, “So…. On a scale of one to ten…”

“Thirteen. Right now I’m at thirteen.”

 

 

 

At midafternoon of the following day, they reached the city gates at last. The walls were blinding. All not wearing greenish sunglasses, which included the travelers and Rumpel, shaded their eyes with their hands.

A glaring sun, just past its zenith, sent blazing rays to bounce off of chunks of emerald embedded into river rock and a stone like glossy, yet veined obsidian. Encrusted all over were rubies, sapphires, opals, topaz, garnets, tiger’s eye, onyx… on an on. It was impossible to guess the wealth on plain display in the wall, and each gem was seamed with gold. It was a tad disco-gaudy.

Here and there were places where someone had attempted to chisel out a chunk of wealth. Always, close by, there was a stake with a head atop. Some were appallingly fresh, gore dripping to the much trod ground, eyes and scalp ravaged by carrion birds. Others were moldering or parched skulls, showing wide grins from beyond the veil.

The gates were open, the entrance marked by something like gigantic mammoth tusks, carved with symbols of a language the travelers didn’t recognize and banded in gold. Soldiers stood at attention, patting people down, acting as security. They handed out greenish sunglasses as needed, and Rumpel and the travelers accepted them with gratitude. They were, of necessity, part of the fashion of the city. Within its walls, everyone was wearing them. Far and wide, the yellow brick road splitting off in all directions, spokes of a wheel, people of all types and styles went about their business, shielded behind bottle-green glass.

“Where can we find the Wizard?” Killian asked one of the smartly attired soldiers. They wore black with buttons of emerald green. Each wore a choker of gold braid around his neck.

Behind his green shades, the soldier’s eyes flickered over Killian’s chest and torso, bared but for furriness and the leather straps. His eyes rose to skim over the leathery wings, folded and tall. Pointing, he said, “In the main hall of the castle. He’ll receive petitioners until 3p.m. He’s off, tomorrow. It’s Poppy Day.”

“Thanks, mate.” Killian said, appraising the soldier in the same manner in which he’d been appraised.

With the help of the monkeys, Killian and traveling companions muscled their way to the front of the crowd. The crown made an untidy queue; people waiting for a moment of the Wizard’s attention. Some carried items of dispute; evidence, or perhaps gifts. Some led livestock… Even the blinders on the horses were shades of green.

When it was finally their turn, Rumpel growing ever more twitchy and agitated, Jefferson and Victor collectively sucked in a breath. Upon a central dais, situated on a gaudy throne of overly worked gold, was… _another_ Rumpelstiltskin.

Sneaking a glance at Rumpel, Jefferson muttered, “He’s in a _dual_ role.”

Victor also slid his eyes from one Rumpelstiltskin to the other. Rumpel didn’t seem to take notice.

The Wizard-Rumpel was clearly the Dark One. His skin was rough and cast in greenish-copper, glinting here and there, like mica. His hair had taken on a fop’s curl and his eyes were the jeweled and peculiar eyes of a curious, inquisitive lynx.

Unlike ragged, little Rabbit-Rumpel, he was dapper and trim in leather trousers and elegant, leather boots that laced up his thighs. He was resplendent in silk and brocade. A long cloak of forest green lay over the throne, trimmed in a royalty of ermine.

His teeth were appalling.

“Well hello, dearies.” He waggled one hand. “What brings you to the Great and _Tewwible_ Oz?” He giggled. He looked Killian up and down, and added, “You’re rather a hot mess…. Come for fashion tips?”

“No, your… wizardlyness.” Killian tried.

The Dark One smiled, his eyes insane in a congenial way. Out of the emerald glare, all present removed their shade to better view the odd Wizard.

Taking off his hat, Jefferson said, “Jefferson’s the name, your Great and Terribleness. My Plus One and I are jumpers, travelers by hat. Our hat seems to have died, and we’re here to see if it can be repaired.”

“Indeed? And which amongst the motley assortment is your ‘Plus One’?”

“I am.” Victor spoke up, looking a little rattled. “I’m Dr. Victor Frankenstein, your… Dark… Ozness.”

The Dark One’s fingers did a merry, tickling dance. “The hat.” He said. “Gimme.”

With some reluctance, Jefferson handed over the hat. While the Dark One looked it over, he asked, “And what about the rest of you? Are you here for moral support?” He held the hat up to his ear, as if checking for the sound of the ocean in a shell.

“Not exactly.” Killian said. Indicating himself and his crew, he said, “We’ve all been wronged by Regina, the Wicked Witch of the West. She was our employer, and she turned us into flying monkeys. Well, most of us. She also took my hand. We came to see if you can restore us to ourselves.”

Still poking about the hat, Jefferson visibly flinching with each poke, the Dark One said, “Well, that depends, dearie. Did you sign a contract with the witch? Did it say anything about becoming a monkey at her discretion? Body alterations per her say-so?”

“I don’t believe so.” Killian looked at his crew. They shuffled on monkey feet and shook their heads, holding feathered hats to their chests.

“Then, perhaps… _something_ can be done.” The Dark One mused. Pointing at Rumpel, he asked, “What about you, precious?”

Rumpel shrank inside himself, and the Dark One peered at him closely. Rumpel whispered, “I would like some courage, sir. If it’s to be had.” Killian nudged him, and he quickly stammered, “And a pile of gold!”

Leaning back and crossing his legs, dangling the hat from a finger as he gestured broadly, the Dark One said, “Well, that’s easily accomplished. You certainly appear to need both.”

Rumpel acquired a small glow of hope. It fell almost at once, as the Dark One, sober grin in place, asked, “But… what’s in it for _me_?”

“Oh, here we go.” Victor muttered.

Before negotiations could begin, a lovely and innocent looking creature of russet hair and peaches and cream skin came skipping onto the dais. Victor and Jefferson exchanged a look, for there could be no mistaking Belle. She was followed by an entourage of owls, all of them grounded and waddle-running after her, wings held slightly out. Also part of her entourage were a flock of books, flapping through the air.

Cheerfully, she plopped herself onto the ark One’s lap and smooched a kiss upon his cheek. “Sweetheart!” she gushed. Owls and books settled about the throne, content and happy in their mistress’s presence.

The tips of his fingers to her chin, the Dark One turned her head to face his audience. Belle gave a sweet smile, enchanting all present, and said, “Oh! Hi, gents!”

Even the monkeys blushed, humbled to be included in her greeting and warmed by her kindness. Talking with his hands, the Dark One said, “This fine company has come for the repair of both hat and persons. We were just getting to the…”

… he trailed off, looking at Belle. Everyone looked at her. As his hands moved about, fingers active, her eyes followed them. She was like a kitten tracking string… her eyes were focused, yet dreamy. Her soft lips were parted and seemed to open a little wider when his fingers moved near.

With a chuckle to the crowd, the Dark One said, “You must forgive Belle. She suffers from Nymphalepsy. It can be very… distracting. Indeed, dearie?”

He stroked his fingertips over her waiting lips, and she made a soft and very compelling, moan, eyelashes fluttering. Each in the company felt his own moan aching to sigh from his parted lips, man and monkey alike. Each blushed and shifted on his feet, trying not to touch parts set aflame. Killian’s nipples, somewhat hidden by his pelt, went ruddy and hard. They visibly, eagerly invited a saucy pinch.

Holding one forefinger aloft, the Dark One said, “Nymphalepsy is a terribly contagious condition. You must watch yourselves, gentlemen. But isn’t she a sweet thing?”

There was a general murmur of masculine voices, all in concurrence that – yes – she was, indeed, sweet. Little Rumpel, especially, was overwhelmed and beside himself. The blush on his cheeks was a hectic pink, his heart pounding. He looked at Belle with eyes that were molten and almost unafraid. He experienced a dawning, unfamiliar feeling of possessiveness, when – all his life – he’d had nothing of his own. Fingertips and toes tingling, he thought; _mine_.

Trying to overcome the shameless bidding of his nipples, Killian nudged Jefferson and muttered, “What about your brains, mate?”

Stronger than the others, having developed a certain tolerance for Nymphalepsy, the Dark One inquired, “Brains, dearie?”

Nodding, Jefferson said, “Well, yes. It’s not my primary petition, but I’ve been told you deal in brains. I could do with a little extra.”

“You seem alright to me.” The Dark One wrinkled his nose.

“Well, I get by.”

“You’re adorable.” Killian murmured, cutting his eyes at Jefferson. Jefferson blushed.

Giving Killian a nasty glare, Victor cleared his throat and said, “And I’m interested in a heart.”

The Dark One uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, bouncing Belle about as he did so. She giggled, and her attention strayed from his fingers to the lacings going up his legs. Her eyes touched every detail, her manner that of a stalking vixen. At her feet, her owls and books rustled and cooed.

Assessing Victor, one finger stroking his gaunt and greenish cheek, the Dark One said, “Now _that_ I can see. You do have a rather cold, machine-like exterior.”

Jefferson grinned at Victor. Aggrieved, Victor blurted, “It’s not for _me_.”

“Oh. No, dearie?”

“No, your… magicalness. It’s for science.”

“Ah… science. You’re one of _those_. That explains the chilliness.”

Victor gave a _what the hell_ look to Jefferson, who tried to make his eyes sympathetic through the grin.

“Well, children,” the Dark One said, expansive, “I believe there’s help for all of you, but let us return to the meat of the matter.”

At the spoken word, ‘meat’, Belle groaned a pretty, little groan and wiggled on the Dark One’s lap. Her flush put off heat, and unrest traveled the room, fondling hidden parts in a manner most incendiary. Killian sucked in his breath, and to Jefferson he said, “I don’t think I’m going to make through this, mate. At least… not with any dignity left.”

Victor said, “You go around in that get-up, and you’re concerned about dignity?”

“Truly, mate? Shall we discuss your hair?”

There was a brief competition of clenching jaws, squared chins and flashing eyes; a pretty close match. Interrupting the little spike of testosterone that somewhat befouled the drift of Nymphalepsy, the Dark One produced several documents out of thin air. He put Belle’s owls to work; they flew about the room, distributing papers and writing implements. In the flurry of activity, he said, “Before I give you all what you need, a deal must be struck. I’m in need of a certain pair of silver slippers, and I think you’re the right company to retrieve them for me.”

Jaw dropped, Killian said, “You jest, mate.”

“I do not.” The Dark One grinned.

Uncertain he heard correctly, Jefferson echoed, “Slippers?”

“Aye, mate.” Killian said, his swagger defeating Nymphalepsy as he made an expression of disgust. His nipples got back in line. “They belong to Regina.”

“Indeed,” the Dark One agreed. “The magical, mysterious, miraculous silver slippers of The Wicked Witch of the West. Once the property of The Wicked Witch of the East. I want them. I must have them. You’ll have no trouble finding them, I’m certain… You can’t miss them. Sparkling silver, a fine kitten heel. A fetching, little bow.”

Hands on leather clad, narrow hips, wings stirring, Killian asked, “What the devil do you need with the witch’s _slippers_?”

The Dark One took on a far-away, dreamy look. He fondled the fabric of Belle’s skirt between fingers and thumb, sparking intensity in little Rumpel’s eyes. He said, “I just… like them.”

A murmur went about the room as monkeys puzzled over paperwork and owls returned to their mistress, who leaned down to scratch their feathery heads. Books wriggled jealously, and Belle pet them, too.

The Dark One said, “Those who agree to my terms and would fetch the silver slippers in payment for the wishes I will happily grant, please read over the issued contracts. Note that your initials are required in several areas, and the documents must be signed and dated. Monkey men may use X’s or fingerprints, if need be. We have ink pads on hand, and Belle will date your contracts. Do take a moment, dearies.”

Jefferson and Victor conferred with Killian. “Can this be done?” Jefferson asked.

Victor grumbled, “I’m not wild about returning to Regina’s territory after yesterday.”

Shaking his head, Killian said, “Nor me, mate. I suppose if it can be done, we stand a better chance than most. I know her castle like, shall we say, the back of my hand. I’m also quite familiar with her boudoir, which is where we’re likely to find the slippers.” Surprisingly, he blushed. “What do you think?” he asked the travelers.

Jefferson and Victor looked at one another. Agreement moved between them almost psychically. With a sigh, Jefferson said, “I guess we’re in. We’ve _got_ to get home.”

“Alright, mate. I better go help my crew through the paperwork.”

Jefferson and Victor settled down to do the same, browsing over the fine print, together.

“Why does he care about race or ethnicity?”

Jefferson shrugged, and Victor read, “ ‘Quadling, Winkie, Tik Tok, Munchkin…. Red, Non-Quadling. Yellow, Non-Winkie. Short statured, Non-Munchkin’…”

“Fuck it. Put ‘other’.”

“Sex.”

“Yes please.”

Giving a look, Victor said, “Shall we go with ‘male’, dear?”

“Last I checked.”

Victor growled something shockingly dirty, making Jefferson blush worse than did Killian’s flirtation. He checked off ‘male’ for both of them, then looked at Jefferson, nonplussed. “Religious preference? But… why?”

Reading over his shoulder, Jefferson said, “‘Resolutely Pagan. Hierarchy of Magic. Friends of Ozma? Destroyers of… Salt?’ _Ooh!_ ‘Latter Day Devotees of the Church of the Jedi’! Pick that one!”

“How your information may be shared with other practitioners of magics and eclectic collectors of elaborate curses.” That section went on for three pages, front and back, in dizzyingly small script. It looked suspiciously like a series of nonsense curlicues, and maybe a little esoteric math.

Victor frowned. Jefferson rubbed his chin. Rumpel approached, worry in full bloom at his Belle besotted eyes. Holding up the many pages of his contract, he quoted, “’In the event of your untimely and likely gruesome death, do you have an Advanced Directive you’d like us to keep on file with the Emerald City House of Records and Other Unimportant Minutiae’?”

“Jesus.” Jefferson said, which drew a blank from Rumpel. “Rumpel, you don’t have to do this, you know. I’m not sure Victor and I have much choice, if we ever hope to get home. But you’re not obligated.”

Rumpel sighed. He glanced to the dais, where Belle and the Dark One were engaged in light petting. He sighed again. “But… the courage. And the gold. I think I must.”

Patting Rumpel’s shoulder, Jefferson said, “Don’t worry. We’ll look after you.” Rumpel’s doubt was plain. Jefferson amended, “Well, Killian will be there.”

Owls began circulating the room, looking to collect signed papers. They tilted their heads in inquiry, opening beaks for deposit. To a burrowing owl, Killian said, “Not just yet, mate.” The owl politely closed its eyes and ducked its head, giving Killian privacy while it waited.

 

 

 


	5. Westward

Before setting out, the company was treated to a good supper and a replenishment of supplies. Belle attended the table, topping off cups of ale or goblets of wine. Little Rumpel seemed to vibrate and become warm every time her long skirts swished near his chair. Noticing, she smiled and gave his head a scratch, much as she did her owls.

“Cutie.” She said.

Rumpel said, “Hnnnnggghhh…” He felt that the goose grease, shining over his lips and chin, was regrettable. When Belle moved away, he continued shoveling food into his mouth, sopping up gravy with crusty bread, arms protecting his plate from pillage.

Next to the flying monkeys, whose feet perched on their chairs, he was couth and cultured. The monkeys gobbled in delight. Goose, roasted, red potatoes, baked apples with cinnamon, greens tossed with walnuts and cheese… they tried to eat everything in one go, occasionally opening their mouths to one another, boasting of all contained therein.

“Apologies, all.” Killian shrugged. “I can’t do anything with them, really.”

After supper, they were allowed a brief respite in the great hall, which featured several enormous stained glass windows depicting the exploits and happy tyranny of the Wizard. They took a digestive period in which to smoke Killian’s excellent weed. Presently, it was time to man-up and go fetch the slippers.

 

 

The West was more rocky than it was mountainous; foothills, deep ravines, narrow trickles of black water. Bared rock looked scraggy and scarred, and trees grew snarly and sparse upon it. Other places were forested, thick with conifers and dark with the sentient, Witch-allied trees. They crowded around and allowed for little light.

The company took to the air to avoid the forest, yet couldn’t be certain the trees didn’t look up at them, strange birds, and whisper of their presence. Rumpel trembled and whined at flying time, but – firm – Killian said, “You’re with me, Rabbit.” Everyone was ready to get the deed done and collect the reward; there was no time to coddle.

Once past the thickest stand of trees, they landed and went on foot. The Wicked Witch, after all, was a traveler of air roads. It was safer to hazard rocky ledges and fissures; to creep and trek, often single file, hugging stone.

Jefferson came to know the feel and scent of cold mineral, scratchy or disturbingly fleshy lichen, soft, earth scented mosses and the tickle of their fruiting bodies against his face. Victor, always right beside or behind him, tuned out nearly everything. Surgeon mentality came to the forefront, and his focus honed to the land beneath his feet, to Jefferson and always to a narrowed point in the distance. His ears trained to predators and threats, but his eyes were only aware of the task at hand; putting one foot before the other.

On one tricky, curving, ridge-hugging path, Rumpel took a tumble and was nearly lost in a root-studded, dark crevice of untold depth. He was lassoed by a monkey tail, and then Killian – bicep flexed and jaw clenched - hauled him back to the path. “Eyes on the road, mate.”

“Aye.” Rumpel breathed, eyes wide. It took some discourteous prodding to get him moving, again.

The land began to even out, hilly, but less treacherous, studded with bristly clumps of gorse and heather. It seemed a shadow was cast over the land; but from what? Cresting a hill, it became apparent that the darkness came from the Witch’s castle.

It was nearly indistinguishable from the land. It rose, a hulk of lumpy shapes made of dark rock and sharp, spear-like shale, and it seeped darkness. Ignoring all rules of sun and shadow-casting, it unfurled darkness, breathing it out, a mist from stone. It altered all of the air.

The party viewed it from a near height. Below them, in a roughly demarked courtyard, the Witch’s guard practiced formation. They wore black, gleaming leather armor and carried weapons of dull, dark iron. Their helmets were tall and formed odd, bramble-thorny forests upon their heads. The design echoed a theme of black briar that covered much of the castle’s exterior, thorny and dangerous. It was as if the castle has once been covered in teeming masses of climbing roses, a hot haze of scent and beauty in a place of bright sun… but the sun was veiled, the roses long dead, the canes twisted and brittle. What remained was skeletal, piercing and overrun with mad spells.

Jefferson glanced at Killian, trying to imagine him, as well as the monkeys, done up in the black, briar garb and performing duties as the Witch’s army. He could dress Killian’s lean form in uniform easily enough, but it was harder to force his easy, relaxed nature, his quick smile into the enforced gloom.

The soldiers chanted, unified voices deep, sounding off. It was a left, left, left-right-left cadence, but what they chanted was, “Oh, we love… the Old One.”

They sang it over and over, marching to and fro, hefting weapons, about-facing, forming spider web patterns within their ranks. It was impressive and precise coordination, but Jefferson wondered over its usefulness. He could have been watching the Rockettes.

Shocking to the hidden company, the smoky, black spec from the traveler’s dreams came shrieking down from the sky. In the sky’s shadow-smeared state, the speck seemed to merely blip into existence…. To appear from nowhere at about mid-tower level and then drop into the courtyard. There was a sound like a far away jet.

The speck resolved into Regina, and Jefferson sucked back a surprised bark of laughter. He looked at Victor, who raised a sardonic brow in return. She looked like she’d raided the wardrobe of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. Her hair was big and elaborate. Her dress, while predictably long, form hugging and black, also boasted of a neckline that plunged nearly to her navel. Her collar rose up, wing-like behind her head. It was difficult to determine if her look was one of heightened sexuality or that of a dominatrix-inspired drag queen.

She held her broom like a Kalashnikov, menacing her guard with a snarl from Goth lips of deep purple-black.  She growled, “Will you people stop _calling_ me that? I’m not the frigging _Old One_. The next man to say those words gets turned into a flying monkey!”

Killian explained, “She _hates_ the army songs. They were instituted back in Cora’s day, before she moved South and went feeble. They’re supposed to be respectful, evoking one of the old goddesses or another. But Regina’s not really an old-fashioned girl.”

There was muttering amongst the guard. Raising her broom, Regina shouted, “Fall in!”

The guard said something like, “Hup! Hup!” They resumed marching, and unanimously altered their chant to, “Oh-ee-oh… whoa-oh!”

“Oh. Well, now that’s just asinine.” Killian huffed.

The Witch disappeared through the inner gates of the courtyard, much of her guard trailing behind in a modified boogie. Quietly, Killian led the company down a twisting, barely discernable path, curving in a spiral down a hill of ash and stunted thorn tree. When they reached the bottom, they spied _another_ company… A gathering of smallish, oddly shaped men, all made of tin.

 

 

 

“Tik Toks!” Killian whispered.

“What the fuck?” Victor whispered to Jefferson, as was becoming his go-to reaction in Oz. Jefferson shrugged; it was his go-to response. His mouth hung open a little, eyes wide.

“So… it’s true.” Rumpel rasp-whispered.

“Aye, mate. Men of Winkie crafted tin. Regina uses magic to animate their clockwork insides. She gives them the hearts of her victims.”

“The hearts?” Victor asked, very interested in re-animation via organ transplant. “Oh, would you stop.” Jefferson hissed.

“Aye. Many of her guard, amongst others, are minus a heart. She can control them that way… she can easily get them to do her bidding, and they’re fairly immune to pain and violence. She mostly keeps the hearts well at hand, in a vault. But… well. She’s gone a bit mad as her childbearing years sail on by.”

“Oh. And here I thought she seemed so reasonable.” Victor observed.

With a brow raise, Killian said, “I doubt there’s such a thing as a stable witch. Davida’s a sweetheart, but even she’s a bit wonky. Regina started making little experiments… sort of creating children. The Tik Toks are one of her successes.”

Nearing, the company went into a deep crouch, a maneuver easier on monkey than man, but for Rumpel, who was long accustomed. Hunkered down, they shuffled closer.

 

“…. She doesn’t _own_ us.” One of the Tik Toks said.

“But she made us. She’s our mother.”

“She doesn’t _own_ us.”

 

Killian gave a significant glance. Tik Tok disgruntlement could work in their favor.

 

“Anyway, _Winkies_ made us.”

“Pffft. We’d be scraps of ornament. It’s the Witch who made us alive.”

“But… are we _alive_?”

 

“Oh.. this is really freaking me out.” Victor whispered.

 

“What about souls? Spirits?”

“We _breathe_ … we i _nspire_. Therefor we are inspirited. Ensouled.”

“Breathe? With what? Cogs and wheels, my friend. Stolen hearts.”

“No… I went to a sermon…”

“Oh, here we go.”

 

“This seems like it could go on for awhile.” Killian muttered. “I’m making a move.”

Rumpel looked panicked, but Killian stood straight and tall, wings a-shudder. Several pairs of Tik Tok eyes looked, heads swiveling. Their eyes were in a permanent fixture of shock; their heads could turn nearly all the way around their necks, an unnerving, scraping sound. The effect was rather like Belle’s owls.

Killian said, “Live long and prosper, dear people.” He raised his right hand in greeting.

One of the Tik Toks whispered, “A winged man! Could it be an angel? I _told_ you we were ensouled!”

Victor laughed out loud. His smile was broad and happy, and he looked to the heavens.

“Not exactly, mate. Though some have said so.” He flashed a smile of charm and wickedness that was the opposite of angelic. Although he did, indeed, appear to have a lot of soul. “I’m a bit like you… Regina made me what I am.” He opened and closed his wings, a butterfly gesture.

The gathering of Tik Toks stared in awe. They all coveted his height and his wings. They stared with undisguised envy at the healthy bulge of his crotch. Noticing, he added, “Well, she didn’t make _all_ of me, lads.” He winked. They collectively breathed in a series of cogs and wheels, spinning and clicking, beeping and whirring.

“So, lads.” Killian said. “Can you help us to sneak into the castle? We’re in search of the Witch’s silver slippers.”

There was a gasping of machinery. Tin hands, almost horrifyingly mobile and articulate, joints affixed with nails as delicate and slender as needles, rose to gaping, tin mouths.

“Not the shoes!” one of them said. “They’re her favorite!”

“Aye. We’ve got to have them, mate. They’re part of a spell to undo what’s been done to me and my crew. I’d hate to let the boys down.” Killian gestured to restless monkey men. Some showed blocky teeth, tails a-swish.

Separating himself from the others, one of the Tik Toks suggested, “Perhaps we don’t _have_ to be loyal to the Witch.”

“Oh, here it is again. She’s our _mother_.”

“But of late, she’s been… a bitch.” The rogue Tik Tok insisted.

“Oh. Aye?” Killian encouraged.

“It’s true.” The Tik Tok said. “She’s done things both arbitrary and unjust. She takes out her temper on us. She hurt Jasper in his feelings.”

“Aye?”

Jasper, one presumed, nodded. With a sad expression, he pointed to an obvious scratch and dent marring his torso. “Right here.” He mourned. “And she never even said she was sorry.”

“That _bitch_.” Victor said, and then smiled at Jefferson. He was enjoying himself.

The rogue Tik Tok nodded. “Yes, exactly. She used to love us, but now she has a stolen boy of flesh and blood. She loves him best. He came with his own heart, and is probably ensouled. She calls him ‘Henry’, and no more does she call us by the names she gave us.”

“She calls us ‘toasters’.” Jasper said, head down.

“Oh, mate. That’s not right.”

Tik Tok One said, “It isn’t! It isn’t right! That’s my point.” To his brethren, he added, “Don’t you see? Our creatrix now considers us a botched experiment. We are the forgotten.”

There was click-clack muttering, a bellows-like wheezing as the Tik Toks conferred. Jasper, in a frightening display of soullessness, went very quickly from sad to sly. He cut his startled eyes up to the others, looking from beneath a drawn down, smooshed tin brow. He made a clear illustration of contemplative evil.

“Because we are the forgotten,” he bleeped, “we are also the invisible.”

He was met with an excited whir.

Tik Tok One said, “Yesssss….. Jasper is correct. We pass, unnoticed. We could help the misanthropes. It would be easy.”

“Hey.” Jefferson muttered. But then thought, _Well_.

 

 

 

The Tik Toks knew a way in that was unknown to Killian. He’d soldiered at the castle, but they’d _played._ They knew all sorts of hidey-holes. They traveled on a raft of wood, hauling themselves over moat waters with a rope that disappeared under murky, black water. Their chosen place was at the castles hindquarters, and the channel there was narrow and choked with bull rushes and reeds. The water was a-slime with duckweed, and dark shapes moved beneath, sometimes making brief, humped and suggestive shapes at the surface.

The Tik Toks didn’t care, certain that tin was unappetizing. The flesh and blood party felt jumpy and squeamish, not wanting to be eaten or even touched by whatever lurked beneath. Their noses were assaulted by a fish decay and algae scent, and each of them suspected that a bloated and thickly white corpse, larvae-like, might bob up to the surface at any moment.

Blanching at the shoreline as the Tik Toks hauled the raft from dire gloom, Victor said, “Fucking hell. My balls just retracted into my body.”

“Aye, mate.”

As put off and nervous as the rest, Jefferson aimed for completely false bravado. “Don’t be a pussy.” Kilian smiled, a brief flare up of naughty that suggested he thought well of lewd words falling from Jefferson’s lips. Victor said, “Yeah. Okay. When Charon shows up, I’m using you as payment.”

It was decided that the castle intruders would include Killian, the travelers, Tik Tok One and Jasper. Rumpel, the monkey’s and the remaining Tik Toks were to remain ashore, prepared to advance if need be. The flesh and bloods huddled at the center of the rocking, rickety raft… a tad slippery with green-grey slime. The Tik Toks pulled rope and pushed at the soft and pillowy floor with a long, wooden pole.

No fat corpses came to light, but bleached and brittle bones were spied, caught up in reeds. Far overhead, unseen in the castle’s manufactured shadow, black vultures wheeled in a long and constant spiral.

The point of entry was a water-logged, gated tunnel. The iron bars on the gate were long ago rusted and corroded away, perhaps in Cora’s day. They hung like jagged teeth, menacing with tetanus and other unsavory notions that made Victor cast a wary eye, yet they were easily passed. The small Tik Toks led the way down the dark tunnel with ease; tall men crouched low, unable to stand upright and revolted by the lively, damp and colonized quality of the walls and ceiling they scraped against.

There was a heavy, nostril clogging scent of unwashed bodies that Jefferson felt even in his throat. He tried not to breathe, for scent seemed to have formed palpable molecules in the air. Palpable and diseased.

“The tunnel goes under the dungeons.” Killian explained.

“Fabulous.” Victor said, but Jefferson couldn’t speak at all, overwhelmed by gruesomeness. Dank water, fetid air, rot, despair and – of course – a miasma of urine, feces and vomit. Eyes opened or closed in the darkness, his head was filled with images of writhing maggots. It was filled with a vision of his own body, headless, collapsed, while his head was held aloft… alive and staring, going quickly insane.

As his past was rapidly closing in on him, his focus down to one foot before the other, they came at last to a trickle of fresh air. Cat-like, he lifted his nose to it. He followed his nose as surely as he followed Tik Toks, and then the trickle was a river. The air flooded, the walls expanded and the ceiling rose. Light began to seep in, and the Tik Toks led the way up a winding staircase of stone, and into an antechamber that appeared to be something of a coat closet.

Pieces and parts of uniforms hung over hooks or lay over chairs. Mismatched boots lolled about the floor. Weapons of black iron were left lying around, like abandoned toys, and both Victor and Jefferson engaged in casual, on-the-fly theft. All the men donned coats and bramble helmets.

Then, collectively and with caution, they came out of the closet.

 

  

 

 


	6. Victoria's Secret

Jasper was right. They were invisible. No one cared at all about three guardsmen in the company of two tin men, one of them dented. They were passe, yesterday’s news. They kept to corridors mostly unpopulated, but even when another was encountered, nothing happened.

It was a good thing no one paid too much mind, for while Jefferson sort of blended to his stolen coat, his jeans and boots both dark, Victor wore jeans of a dark blue and black, Converse sneakers. That, and Killian’s shape was made rather odd by wings stuffed beneath his coat.

The Tik Toks led them through winding halls of unending gloom. The décor was sparse and often gristly… the odd rug made of an animal’s skin, chandeliers that were a play on the bramble-briar, made of clusters of antlers, filled with candles of black. They passed yawning, ash scented, cold fireplaces and windows that were tall and broad, but covered in a heavy brocade, the theme of which seemed to be a Goya-like Wild Hunt. Even where drapes were pulled back, the castle's shadow-breath gave no relief to the eye.

Then they came to Regina’s bedroom, and it was a different matter entirely.

The Tik Toks, used to being quietly underfoot, made themselves at home. They poked about, searching here and there for the silver shoes. Killian, not a stranger to the Witch’s bed, did the same. Victor and Jefferson stared, disoriented, awash in the world of the feminine, confused after so much bleakness… as well as nights of roughing it with Killian and his crew.

“I feel like the hat dropped me into Victoria’s Secret.” Victor muttered, not entirely displeased by the notion.

“Right?”

Regina’s bed was large. It was a sleigh bed affair of elaborately carved Cherrywood, and gauzy curtains of rose-mauve hung around. Where they parted, they showed mounds of bedclothes and pillows, all printed with roses, peonies or lilies. In a ghostly, subtle manner, the same sort of prints covered the walls.

It was a little bordello-like, yet bespoke a tidiness, even a coldness that brought to mind the Regina they knew in Storybrooke. Flowers sprawled, self-aggrandizing their status as sex organs in the way flowers do, but they did it in an orderly fashion. They did not run riot.

Recovering from the besiege of girliness, a soporific hint of floral – yet warm – perfume in the air, Victor and Jefferson joined in the search. In the closet, under the bed; in drawers and tall chests. They discovered elaborate and intriguing undergarments, enough precious jewels to buy a small island, treasure troves of magical, or possibly culinary ingredients, one book of illustrated erotica and a surprising variety of conical witch hats.

“Where are the bloody _shoes_?” Killian growled. Jefferson made a slow turning of his head, hoping he was looking right them, and they would become obvious as soon as his eyes relaxed. Victor thumbed through the book of erotica, holding it sideways to better view the illustrations.

They heard Regina, her voice purposeful as she addressed her staff.

“ _Shit_!” Jefferson hissed.

“Closet.” Killian commanded, and they all scurried in and pulled the door to. It was very nearly another room, albeit decorated with a witch’s wardrobe. Huddled, they peered through a narrow crack, left as the door was pulled to. They watched Regina sweep into the bedroom, and in an elaborate and oddly old fashioned gesture, her arms rose to pull a long hat pin from her witchy hat. Pulling aside a veil of black lace, she removed the hat and set it aside.

“Graham, is it?” She smiled, her lips and eyes rich and velvety, at the guard who accompanied her. He removed his helmet, and Jefferson whispered, “Hey… it’s the old Sheriff.”

“Aye, Madam.” Graham said. He was tousle-headed, soulful-eyed and wore a troubled expression of uncertainty, exactly as the travelers remembered of their poor, heartless Sheriff. Poor old dead Graham.

Coming closer, Regina held Graham’s eyes with hers. She tapped a fingertip to his codpiece of hard leather, which seemed to give him a start. “You’ll do.” She said, still smiling. “Get undressed.”

“Oh, fuck’s sake.” Killian muttered. “This could go on for hours.”

“Really?” Victor whispered. _“Hours_?”

“Aye. She has potions. And an appetite. Can you tell… is she _wearing_ the bleeding shoes?”

No one could tell, for while Graham stripped down, becoming prettily naked, surprisingly vulnerable while stepping out of his trousers; the Witch remained clothed. Her long, floor sweeping skirt prevented even a peep of footwear. She remained thus, hatless and relentlessly bosomy in her Queen of Darkness bodice, yet covered up. She was a dark shadow to Graham’s pale, singular presentation. She circled him, fingers tipped in dark polish raking lightly over his back and chest, down his spine, over the undercurve of his butt. The closeted men squirmed, and the Tik Toks were very still, indeed.

Graham made a good show of being a soldier. His posture was straight. He kept his chin up and his hands clasped behind his back, as instructed. Only the blushing of his skin and the southernly salute of his body betrayed his growing interest and anxiety.

Unsettled, Jefferson turned away. “I can’t watch.” He whispered. Both Killian and Victor stared at him as if surprised to find a simpleton in their midst, but he kept his back to the unfolding scene, regardless. He eyed the strange, almost expressionless expressions of the soul-seeking Tik Toks, wondering what they made of the blood-urgency of human flesh; the vulnerability to chemical rush, to various glands and muscular impulses.

It was confusing to him now, since Victor. Sometimes arousal struck an uncomfortable note… And he felt a vague wrongfulness about watching a man that he’d known to be a quietly tormented man, and then a dead man. He was uncomfortable, too, with the idea of watching Regina, so long his enemy, as her sexuality unfolded.

Killian had no such qualms. His hand strayed to his chest, toying with chest hair as he kept an eye on things. Victor also seemed committed to the progress of boudoir events, but he hissed, “No funny business, Captain.”

“Aye, mate.”

In his head, Jefferson sang Pink Floyd. _We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year._ He shut out heavy breathing and dirty talk… most of the talk was Regina. Graham mostly responded in the breathy affirmative.

Then Killian whispered, “There they are!”

“Son of a bitch.” Victor said.

Jefferson hazarded a glance, his meditative calm immediately disrupted into chaos as he glimpsed a muscular squeeze of male buttock, situated between a spread of bared, female legs. The legs terminated in silver slippers, unmistakable, with kitten heels and fetching silver bows.

“How the hell are we supposed to get them off her _feet_?” Victor asked. “I mean, sure, she’s distracted, but…”

Quiet, yet an unnerving whir of machinery, Jasper said, “They’ll come off.”

Killian looked at him in question. Jasper’s head swiveled up. He said, “She gets hot.”

Jefferson absorbed the notion of Regina’s tin children watching her sexual activity. Pining for both soul _and_ flesh, it would seem. Victor, too, seemed a little subdued by Jasper’s statement, but Killian was focused on shoes, alone. His phantom hand all but flung his hook away in harsh rejection, and his shoulder blades rolled under the weight of wings. It appeared he was getting the shoes, even if they came with Regina’s feet, still inside.

Once again, Jasper was correct. When Graham’s stamina flagged, Regina dosed him up with something from a pink and sparkling bottle. When she became overwrought, her body striving to meet the ferocity of his, she wrapped her legs about Graham’s strong back and pulled off one shoe, then the other. She flung them so that they landed close to the closet. One lay so close, Jefferson could almost walk his fingers out and retrieve it.

Killian sucked in his breath. “One of you… crawl out and grab them. She’d be sure to notice me bloody wings.”

Jefferson thought, _oh… shit. Fuck. Shit._

But on the heels of the thought, he slowly pushed the door open a few inches. He snagged the closest shoe and snatched back his reaching arm. His heart ponded in his chest; his breathing sounded too loud in his head.

For the other shoe, he would have to bodily leave the enclosure. He remained still, suspended on hands and knees, uncertain of timing. Regina’s voice rose, semi-inarticulate cries of impending arrival, and Victor prodded him. “ _Now_ , Jefferson!”

It freaked him out that the door had to open wider. Belly adhering to spine in a morbidly urgent fear of decapitation, Jefferson made an almost blind crawl into the bedroom. Deaf with pounding blood, he barely heard the cacophony of the lovers. He grabbed the shoe, scrambled back, and even when the door was pulled to, he remained deaf.

“Bloody _brilliant_!” Killian whispered. He held both shoes, looking as if he’d found fabled treasure. Victor kissed Jefferson, and Killian murmured, “Mm.. stop it, you two. I’m already a mess of nerves and horniness.” To the Tik Toks, he asked, “Is there another way out?”

They nodded enthusiastically, a sound of springs sprung, and led the men to a small door at the back of the closet, hidden behind diva dresses and stacked hat boxes. It was back to crawling, darkness and the eventual ordeals of both dungeon and moat, but they’d done it.

They were nearly done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those currently reading, I'm sorry it has taken me so long to update! I prefer not to leave things just hanging out there, but I started a new job in February... and when I say it's kicking my butt; I mean with ninja dedication and skill.  
> There's only one chapter to go, so I'm hoping I'll be able to get it posted in the coming week. Thank you for reading! :) 03/26/17


	7. There's No Place Like....

The Emerald City was in an uproar of celebration. Rose petals fell from the sky like snow, soft touches of red, pink, white and coral; fragrant underfoot. They piled up, covering stairs and statuary. They settled in hair and on shoulders. Their falling diffused the blaze of green, so that people took off their shades and viewed a world of varied color.

Killian and crew, travelers and Rumpel, were all escorted into something like a spa. Jefferson blushed continuously to find himself in a large tub with the three other men, foaming bubbles and the relentless spillage of rose petals notwithstanding. Rumpel was even worse off, ducking low in the water so that only his head peeped out. They all suffered the peculiar mix of humiliation and pleasure afforded by being scrubbed and groomed by strangers; clinically uniformed, Emerald City staff who smiled politely and tended naked bodies with a friendly, dispassionate air.

Nearby, monkeys were washed and given sleek blow-outs. The Tik Toks who had declared disloyalty to Regina were buffed and polished; Jasper’s hurt feelings were suctioned out so that he gleamed, smooth and bright.

Deep within the palace, hidden even from Belle, the Dark One gloated. The silver slippers were propped on a cushion of velvet within a box of myrrh-studded yew, wrapped in spells. Certainly Regina would be wrathful and try to retrieve them, but the Dark One was not overly concerned. They were his. His power was great, even greater, now. He had plans.

 

 

 

There was a grand feast, even more so than the send-off supper. Before being seated at an endless table set with ruby red and emerald green cut crystal, there was something of a mix and mingle. Monkeys wore green sashes over their jackets, buttons shining. Killian’s leather straps gleamed and smelled of rose oil. Rumpel and the travelers were cleaned up and tidy; Rumpel’s hair combed and soft, Victor and Jefferson each working hair product scented with defiled innocence, the texture of which created punkish do’s that defied gravity. They were well pleased.

Belle found Rumpel and said, “Oh. Hi, you. Don’t you look spiffy?” She kissed his cheek, and Victor and Jefferson could feel the heat of his blush.

Handsome waiters circulated, bearing silver trays of appetizers. One approached Victor and offered, “Fruits of the Devil, sir?”

Smiling, Victor declared, “ _Yes_!” He availed himself of something like a plum… the color of its skin and it’s deep cleft was far more suggestive of the head of a cock that the usual plum, and it came with a side dish of thick, sweet cream. Victor dipped the ripe fruit in the cream and fed it to Jefferson, who accepted it with warm eyes… a sensual, open mouth and seeking tongue.

Owls were on the wing, thieving the odd Fruit of the Devil. Books scurried, recording for posterity. People made way for Belle and the Dark One, both resplendent in coppery-gold attire.

All was lavish and lush; a table laden with roast beast, with wine and sparkling cider, with rose petals and three-tiered cakes of buttercream and red and black currents. Mounds of flowers were formed of sparkling, colored frosting.

Still. The company who had set forth could hardly wait for the evening to move on. They could hardly wait for the bellies of the others to be filled, to get through the hoopla and niceties. They were ready.

The time finally came, marked by the arrival of Davida’s bubble. It drifted above the crowds, reflecting the colors of falling rose petals and causing a ripple of excitement. It resolved into Davida, in all of his/her gossamer glory. He/she waved the star-tipped wand at the happy crowd, and there was a brief uproar of fist-pumping and a chant of, “ _Dah-vee-DAH_!” Davida calmed it with a shushing motion of his/her wand, and deferred to the Dark One.

First came the reversal of Regina’s magic. Standing upon the dais, hands aloft, the Dark One struck a deep and growling tone. It was unlike his demented and happy prattle, and wide eyes watched in reverence. He said, “Te Gladi, vos Gladios, trea Nomine Sancto, Ahlat, Abracadabra, Jehova elico. Adonai, Elohi, Zena, Eko Azarek. Gorditas, Chalupas, Los Lobos. Bene Elohim, Malachim, Angelos of Orion. Old Gods and New, so forth and et cetera…. _Haggis_!”

Wrinkling his nose, Jefferson looked at Victor. He felt certain they’d been snake-oiled. They’d journeyed over treacherous land and witnessed Regina’s sexual proclivities… and for _what_? But… the incantation _worked_. Beside him, Killian’s wings shimmered and disappeared. Without them, Jefferson began to somewhat understand Victor’s Freddie Mercury reference. The straps, minus the wings, bespoke… something. The hook disappeared as well, and – amazed – Killian flexed his hand. He grinned at Jefferson and Victor.

The flying monkeys went through an even more vigorous change, losing wings and becoming men. However, while outfitted smartly from the waist up, none wore pants. There was a flurry of triumphant shouts and raised, victorious arms, and then an almost unified dropping of arms, hands scrambling to cover naughty bits.

The star-tip of Davida’s wand going to his/her chest, he/she exclaimed, “Oh, _look_!” His/her voice was throaty and pleasured. Just as quickly, he/she gushed, “Oh, no! I mean… look _away,_ my dears! Avert your eyes!” With a wave of the wand, the restored men were dressed in gentlemanly trousers of narrow legged black.

Gesturing to Rumpel, The Dark One curled a greenish finger, beckoning. Rumpel hesitated, clearly unnerved. The Dark One said, “Come here, dearie.” As is speaking to a child or a puppy, he added, “Come on… that’s right. To _me_ , dearie. That’s a good boy.”

Once at the Dark One’s side, Rumpel stammered, “Is this about courage, your… Black as Nightness?”

“Indeed, it is. And a pile of gold, I believe.”

Cupping his hand to Rumpel’s ear, the Dark One whispered a secret. For a moment, Rumpel’s eyes grew very dark and strange, his expression dazed. Then he changed. A small devil’s storm of purple-onyx swirled about his body, and when it cleared, a new Rumpel was beheld by the crowd. They all drew a startled gasp, then burst into cheering applause.

Victor grinned at Jefferson. “They’re applauding _Gold_. If only we had a video camera.”

It was true. Rumpel had transformed into a sharp-dressed man. He wore a dark suit of impeccable cut, accented with a tie and handkerchief corner of deep crimson. He smelled less of sheep and more of the crackling flames of Hell, the wild spirits of lost gods. He held a dangerous looking cane of ebony, tipped in silver. He smiled, rather maliciously for the crowd, and a gold tooth winked from his bottom row of teeth.

Belle sidled up to him, eyes coy, and said, “Hiya, cutie.”

“… Belle…” New Rumpel gasped. Courage and confidence was evident in his very bearing, but Belle still made him blush. She made eyes at the Dark One, and he gave her a subtle nod, an indulgent smile. Smiling back, she linked her arm to Gold-Rumpel.

“…. Wow.” Jefferson said. Agreeing with his eyes, Victor said, “They must have… an understanding.”

As the crowd settled down from witnessing Rumpel’s transformation, Jefferson and Victor approached the dais. “Our hat?” Jefferson asked, hopeful.

 _Poofing_ it into existence, the Dark One handed it over to Jefferson.

“There was really nothing to repairing it.” he said. “I find with most magical objects, they simply need to power down every now and again. It’s only a matter of turning them off and then back on.”

Clasping his/her hands, Davida said, “You had the power with you _all along_!”

“I’m going to fucking murder someone.” Victor quietly declared to Jefferson, who agreed; his eyes emphatically and telepathically telling Victor so.

“So… it works?” Jefferson asked.

“Indeed, dearie.”

Just then, the scheduled entertainment appeared. Jefferson’s eyes grew wide. They were saucers, his mouth hanging open. _It was the nuns_. It was Reul Ghorm and her covey of spiritual brides, all dressed in cheerleader outfits. They had pom poms. They were a dance corps, and they launched into a synchronized routine to the disturbingly recognizable ‘Hey Mickey’.

Victor rubbed his temples and groaned, “No…. no, no, no…. I can’t.”

“Well, yeah. It’s freaky.”

“ _No_. They’re _nuns,_ Jefferson.” Victor visibly flinched as the nuns collectively swiveled their hips and jumped-back, short skirts flipping up cheekily.

“Victor… You’ve _defiled_ the dead. You’ve _played God_. It can’t be all that bad.”

Victor only shuddered. He covered his eyes with his hand.

Nudging his new pal, Gold-Rumpel, the Dark One said, “Aren’t they precious? They’re in my thrall.”

“Indeed.”

“You know,” the Dark One added, a nod in Davida’s direction, “In Munchkin Country, they choose their leaders based more or less on size. Given the population, you could be _king_ , dearie.”

Gold-Rumpel rubbed his hands together, considering. He flashed his gold tooth. He gave a little cane-salute to Victor and Jefferson.

Finding Killian in the crowd, Jefferson – surprising himself – threw his arms about him in a hug. He ignored the daggers he could actually _feel_ coming from Victor’s brain, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand.  Laughingly, Killian hugged back. _Both_ hands misbehaved. He said, “Well hello, sweetheart. I think you’re making your Plus One unhappy.”

“I know. I just wanted to say goodbye, Killian. And thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , mate.”

With another impulsive embrace, Jefferson fretted, “Won’t you miss your wings?”

Killian shrugged. “I will, a bit. But I feel _whole_ again. Meself. Besides, the wings gave me a constant backache. They’re cumbersome things… you saw me at the dinner table.”

Jefferson nodded. “Will you start wearing shirts, then?”

Flashing his rogue’s grin, Killian said, “Not bloody likely, mate.”

 

 

 

 

The hat worked.

Victor felt the same, somersaulting upheaval as always, nauseous and disoriented as he landed hard on his butt, near the Toll Bridge. As always, Jefferson landed neatly beside him, stealthy on cat paws, grinning as he scooped up his fully functional hat.

They regarded each other, sobered by what seemed to be a more natural landscape, air that was less frantic and a soothing, quiet chatter of birds.

“Home, again.” Jefferson said.

 

 

 

 

They walked into town. Jefferson felt different… he waited for people to call out, to exclaim over two missing men. No one made a peep. They all went about their lives, busy and involved in their own affairs, eyes moving in a distracted manner to phones; 

searching in the distance for loved ones and scheduled appointments.

But not for he and Victor.

He ought to feel miffed, he thought, but – really – he didn’t care. There was a peculiar sort of freedom brewing within, and he hadn’t felt it, before, dwelling in Storybrooke.

Beside him, Victor was in a casual stroll, hands in his jacket pockets. Within his new sense of freedom, Jefferson linked his arm to Victor’s, moving close. No one even noticed. Victorian style, they perambulated.

Near the Sheriff’s station, Jefferson spied David Nolan. He was dressed like a lumberjack, and stood with his hands on his hips in a manner completely unlike Davida. His fingers were in a loose curl… the fingers of his right hand looked as though they longed to fondle his gun.

“Aw, look.” Jefferson said. “There’s Davida, being all butch.”

Victor snorted, then nodded to the corner, where Gold was stepping off the sidewalk ledge. “There’s the Snark One. Being all snark.”

“I miss Rumpel.”

“You’re such an orphan collector.”

Looking about, Jefferson mused, “I wonder if Killian’s around. Do you think he sleeps on the Jolly Roger?” It felt strange, now; in Storybrooke, he didn’t really know the man who’d become his friend in Oz.

Victor considered for all of three seconds. Then he unlinked his arm from Jefferson’s and smacked him upside the back of the head. Jefferson rocked forward and stumbled a bit. “Ow.” he said, hand to head.

“Snap out of it, you retarded nympholeptic.”

“Jeez, Victor. I was just wondering. I call domestic violence.”

“We’re not in the domicile.” Victor growled.

“Whatever, Victor.”

“What _ever_ , Jefferson.”

Despite the skirmish, Jefferson re-linked. Victor allowed it. They continued on, letting the place that had become their hometown wash over them with both familiarity and strangeness. They were glad to be back, but it also seemed they were a little on the outside.

Jefferson hummed ‘Hey Mickey’.

 

 

 

Once home, which was really Victor’s house, Jefferson ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He burst into Victor’s bedroom, a soberingly masculine affair of earth tones and medical journals. He threw himself onto the bed.

“ _Home!”_ he crowed. He rolled on the bed _. “Bed!!”_

Crawling beside him, Victor said, “I believe there was to be something of a reckoning.” He pulled Jefferson close, by the belt buckle.

“On a scale of…”

“Twenty-seven, Jefferson. And climbing.”

Jefferson purred, his arms going around Victor. Victor settled on top, warm and gratifying in the heavy press of his body. He kissed Jefferson, and murmured, “There’s no place like home.”

 

 

THE END


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